Tuesday, August 5, 2014

First Shot (33)

Andrew
Salzwedel was sitting behind the wheel of his van, parked on the pad
outside Blow's office, when he got home.

“Brother-in-law
had to work late, so our dinner out's been postponed. Cheryl made me
some soup.” Salzwedel's explanation sounded real to Blow, but
something was disturbing the teacher's composure. Or maybe, Blow
considered, he was just watching his client more closely than before.
Salzwedel turned down an offer of beer, after hesitating, but
accepted water. They'd settled in the library, next to his office.
Salzwedel had brought a laptop, which now sat on the table between
them. It remained in its canvas case.

After
minimal small talk, Salzwedel cut to the chase. “You said the word
mystery, and something
happened. It was like you flipped a switch. It was the perfect word
to describe what I've been wrestling with for nearly a month now.”

Blow
nodded, but said nothing. He had his yellow pad in front of him, but
had yet to write anything down. A digital recorder was in his pocket,
turned on, as a backup to his memory and any notes he might make.

Salzwedel
continued. “I love mysteries. Real ones, not the kind in novels,
the whodunnits, which are just elaborate contrived puzzles. Some are
done quite skillfully, but once I get familiar with a certain
author's work, his style, his character types, they lose their
novelty. Not much challenge anymore. You know, how they misdirect you
to thinking the killer is this guy, but it's really that guy, usually
the least likely of a half dozen or so suspects? They're fun, but
they're more like crossword puzzles to me. The formula gets old after
a while.

“It's
why I like history so much, I think. The mysteries. Like JFK's
assassination, which is what really lit the fire under me. I read
every book that came out on it, including the Warren Report—the
whole thing. There have been so many theories, some meticulously
documented and authoritative, both trying to prove or disprove this
or that is what happened, this guy or that group or conspiracy was
behind it. The thing is, Joe, we'll never know, for sure, beyond a
reasonable doubt, as you say in court. The truth will never be known
as a certainty. And yet, look how much we've learned about that
period in our history we might never have looked at so closely
without the passion to solve this mystery. The Cuban stuff, Kennedy's
Mafia connections, that whole New Orleans business, and on and on.

“I'm
not a conspiracy theorist. Not at all. But I see the conspiracy
approach as a sort of working hypothesis, a vehicle to get you from A
to B to wherever in an orderly progression, linking ideas and events
you might never have seen as a pattern without the game incentive,
the desire to solve whatever mystery you hope to unravel in the
process.”

Salzwedel
lifted the water glass to his mouth, tipped his head back and
appeared to be pouring the water straight down his gullet without any
apparent assistance from the muscles in his throat. Half the water
was gone when returned the glass to the table. He ran his tongue
across his lips, then breathed deeply. His composure seemed more
settled, focused. His eyes, a dark hue just shy of black, either
mahogany or a deep navy, shone now with an intensity Blow had not
noticed earlier.

“I
think historical mysteries are more engaging for me because the
dynamic is no longer current,” he continued. “The main action and
the results from it are over. I can't imagine what it must be like as
a political analyst, trying to determine or at least make educated
guesses at what's really going on. The secrecy, the misdirection,
multiple motives, personalities, stakes—some obvious, others
hidden-- all leading to consequences intended and unintended with
repercussions no one could predict with any hope of accuracy, as to
either what or when.

“I
have enormous respect and admiration for those who work in that
arena. The players and those who try to follow the game. None of them
having a map or a compass or anything at all but their cunning and
existential daring to guide them through a minefield designed by
Satan, if you will. The nerves and the wits it must take boggle my
mind. At least with history the retrospective is at a safer distance.
We may not ever be able to know everything that happened in a certain
time span, but at least the past stands still for us. It's not a
moving target.

“Yet
it's not necessarily altogether static either, Joe. There's always
the chance of something pushing up through the crust of what all
available evidence has given us to take for granted. Something that
can put a whole new perspective on an old old story. And that might
well be what we're dealing with here, right now.” He drank the rest
of his water. Blow excused himself, went to the kitchen and returned
with a plastic pitcher of water. Ice cubes rattled as he set it down
next to Salzwedel's laptop, which he'd removed from its case but had
not yet opened. Blow refilled both of their glasses from the pitcher
and settled back in his wooden armchair. The rain they'd anticipated
had begun, pelting the twin library windows with a wind-driven
percussive insistence. Salzwedel, leaning forward and resting his
forearms on the table, launched into his narrative.

“Somewhere
about the middle of September, maybe earlier, Newt Gunther took me
aside at one of our reenactment rehearsals...”